


two weeks

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, a metric fucktonne of swearing, modern!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:58:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly works too hard and never goes anywhere. Bahorel, on the other hand, has a habit of picking up and running off at the drop of a hat. Usually it isn't a big deal for them to be apart, but... well, from Feuilly's point of view, two weeks is a long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Come with me,” Bahorel insisted. 

Feuilly twisted in his chair to stare at the man sprawled out across his bed. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His expression conveyed everything. 

“I’ll pay,” Bahorel added. 

Feuilly rolled his eyes.   
There were things he was willing to take from his friends — cigarettes, the occasional meal, sometimes a little cash to make rent at the end of the month. But he paid them back in his own way, and he never asked for anything excessive. They all respected him, and his limits. 

Except, that was, for Bahorel. 

“You’re not in any position to spending a shitload of money,” Feuilly told him. 

“Doesn’t stop me, and it never will. Just fucking come with me.”

“I’m not ditching work for two god damn weeks to go to Croatia!” He huffed. “There wouldn’t even be a job waiting for me by the time I got back, and I can’t do that.”

“You could just go to university.”

“If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to punch you in the face.”

Bahorel put his hands behind his head. “Worth it. When you’re angry your freckles stand out more.”

Feuilly put his head down on his desk. Bahorel smiled. 

It was one of those false, omnipresent expressions of his that popped up whenever his mood tanked. He was upset — he wanted Feuilly to come on vacation with him. Not just because he liked Feuilly, but because that stupid fucker worked too hard and never took any vacations. It was obnoxious — it made everybody else look lazy. 

And it was bad for his health. 

After a moment, Feuilly muttered. “You know I want to go.”

Bahorel grunted. 

“And you know I can’t.”

He grunted again. 

“Have fun. I’d let you take my camera, but I’d never get it back in one piece.”

Bahorel made no sound, because even he wasn’t stubborn enough to deny that. 

“Just stop badgering me,” Feuilly begged.

“I just want you to come with me.”

Feuilly lifted his head up. He was glaring — actually, angrily glaring. “Don’t you fucking think I know that? I would drop everything and go if I could, but I can’t— I can’t. Nothing is gonna change that.”

Bahorel huffed, sat up, and stretched his arms. He made Feuilly’s very tiny one room apartment look like a matchbox every time he moved. “Well, I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“…you have an exam on Friday.”

Bahorel shrugged. “Whatever. I’ll re-take it next semester.”

“Jesus Christ.”

The bed groaned as Bahorel stood up and padded over to him. “I won’t ask again,” he conceded. Feuilly sighed with relief. “But I haven’t changed my mind. It’ll be boring without you.”

“You could just not go,” Feuilly retorted, looking up at him. 

Bahorel looked contemplative for a moment. “There’s a lot of things I could have just not done,” he said. He tapped a finger to Feuilly’s mouth. “So fuck off, asshole.” Feuilly bit him. “Ow! Fucker!”

The ginger artist growled. 

Bahorel grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head to the side so he could bite Feuilly right back. He nipped — hard enough to leave a mark, but light enough to make him inhale sharply — on the point where Feuilly’s shoulder and neck met. It was vampiric — but it was effective. Feuilly reached out with a yelp and grabbed the front of Bahorel’s shirt for balance.

He was convinced that Bahorel — somewhere, somehow — took a class or two on torture while he was out exploring the world, because by the time Bahorel let him go, Feuilly could hardly remember his own name.

He panted unsteadily. His knuckles were white as he held on to Bahorel’s shirt. His pants had never felt so uncomfortable.

Bahorel smirked in that wolfish way of his.

“Monster,” Feuilly whined.

“Something to remember me by,” Bahorel replied. 

“You’re not leaving—”

Bahorel peeled Feuilly’s hands away and stepped back. “I have to pack.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

Bahorel’s grin widened. “Miss you, kid.”

“BAHOREL.”

Bahorel skipped out of reach — he was shockingly graceful for someone his size — and sprinted to the stairs as Feuilly lunged for him. He didn’t stop until he’d reached the landing, at which point he leaned over the railing to look down at Feuilly who back to glaring at him. The only difference was that while before he’d been angry, now he looked murderous. 

“You know some people actually avoid sex for like— … years, because apparently not doing it is more of a rush than doing it?” Bahorel told him. 

Feuilly fumed silently. 

“Cool, right? See you in two weeks!” He pulled the door open and slipped out.

Feuilly stared at the empty space where Bahorel had been for quite some time. Two weeks wasn’t really a long time — it was going to feel like it, he knew, but he would live. 

Bahorel wouldn’t. Because Feuilly was going to use those two weeks to figure out the best possible way to fucking murder him.


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks is equal to fourteen days. That’s three hundred thirty-six hours, or twenty thousand something minutes. It’s half a month, and one twenty-fourth of a year.

In the grand scheme of things, it’s not really a long time.

But when you’re waiting for something, two weeks may as well have been the world’s collective agony when FOX cancelled Firefly.

Feuilly dragged his arm across his forehead, wiping away the sweat. His hand was cramping as he held wood panelling in place, but he couldn’t use a clamp — the carving was too delicate.

He rolled his arm back and held in a wince.

Maybe it was sacrilegious, but he’d have gladly traded Serenity for these two weeks to be over. It felt like it’d been fucking years, and honestly, that movie had a shit ending anyway.

Thank Christ he was down to the last couple of hours. He’d be home soon.

“Lads.”

Feuilly looked over his shoulder. His boss was standing in the middle of the room with his hands up.

“We’ve got to have this whole area wrapped tonight.”

Feuilly blinked and exchanged a sceptical expression with the man working next to him. There was no way in hell they could have everything done by the end of the work day — he’d need about seven hands to even try, and a bucket of magical superglue.

“There’ll be generous overtime,” his boss continued. Every man groaned. “But it has to be done.”

The man next to Feuilly swore under his breath.

Feuilly closed his eyes and rested his head against the bannister. So much for soon.

The sky was that sick, reddish purple colour that cities made at night by the time he was allowed to leave. He limped down the street as a taxi slid past. It was tempting to take it, but he was spendthrift even on the rare occasions that he had money.

Why waste it on cab fare when he could buy smokes that he desperately wanted?

Several things in his back and shoulders popped as he slowly dragged himself home. He’d get cigarettes tomorrow. He would do everything tomorrow. It was almost tomorrow already, he realised — but fuck if he was going to spend another ten minutes of one of the longest days of his life doing things that could wait.

The fact that two weeks were officially over had slipped his mind.

He let himself into his apartment, briefly contemplated taking a shower, realised it wasn’t going to happen, and collapsed face first onto his bed where he passed out.

It was sort of funny, really. He’d spent the last two weeks living in constant awareness of the exact time and date — but at the very end, when his struggle was over, he slipped into a state of unconsciousness so deep that years might have actually passed, and he wouldn’t have known. Rip van Feuilly could have been the new story parents would neglect to tell their children.

Minutes, hours, days — however long it was, he woke up to the feeling of a heavy arm draped across his back.

He woke up to a burning need for nicotine and soreness in every inch of his body from his face to his feet, too — but those weren’t new or interesting.

Bahorel snored beside him. Feuilly squinted at him in the darkness.

There were no windows in his apartment — it could have been the middle of the day for all he knew. But it was dark inside, and warm. And while he’d been planning his revenge for two solid fucking weeks — it could wait.

He shifted closer, curling up against Bahorel’s chest. Bahorel reflexively dug his fingers under Feuilly’s side and held him tight.

When he woke up again, he was in a cold, empty bed. But he wasn’t alone. And there was something plastic sticking to his forehead.

He blinked and reached up.

His fingers curled around a small, but far too familiar box.

Bahorel chuckled. Feuilly groaned with gratitude.

“Welcome back,” he mumbled as he split the box open.

Bahorel smiled. “And to you. I was pretty sure you were dead there for a while.”

“Wha’?”

“Dude, I slapped you and you still didn’t wake up. You were fucking out.”

Feuilly sat up and dug a lighter out of his pocket. “I was sleeping,” he grunted around his cigarette.

“No, you were comatose. What happened?”

Feuilly closed his eyes and took a drag. “Long day.”

Bahorel straightened up. “Hungry?”

He was. his eyes raked over Bahorel’s jeans and v-neck shirt and stupid knit hat.

He was definitely hungry, but it could wait. “Get your ass in this bed.”

Bahorel’s expression actually reflected his surprise.

“Get.” Feuilly repeated. “In this bed. Now.”

Bahorel’s mouth dropped open in an enthusiastic, delighted, and defiant grin. “Ginger, are you giving me orders?”

Feuilly fixed him with a dark stare. He didn’t have to answer — his face said it all. If he had to put his cigarette down and get out of bed, Bahorel’s life was forfeit.

Bahorel kept grinning — but damn if that wasn’t the most attractive thing he’d ever seen.

He took a step back.

Feuilly pulled his cigarette awake from his mouth and exhaled slowly. After a moment, he stubbed it out on a shelf, and set it aside. Bahorel actually laughed. From his significantly taller, heavier, and larger point of view, it was cute.

And in some ways, it was — until Feuilly uncurled and reached for the buckle on his belt.

But Bahorel’s expression stayed devious. “Watcha doin’?” He sounded nonchalant, but he was intrigued. He was a fan of events where pants came off.

Feuilly’s pants stayed on. He pulled the thick, brown leather belt — the only one he’d ever had, or needed — free from his jeans with an ominous _schliiick_.

Bahorel’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. 

Feuilly stepped off his bed.

“That’s cheating.”

Feuilly smacked him in the arm with a surprising amount of force. “You fucking earned it!”

“Ow!” Bahorel rubbed his arm. “I bought you smokes!”

Feuilly hit him again — first on the leg, and then wherever Bahorel let him, because the grinning idiot wasn’t putting up much of a fight. “That isn’t—” another strike “—enough! And you know it!”

“Ow. OW! Owww!” Bahorel laughed as he cringed into the wall. He did deserve it. He deserved every fucking minute of it. But he didn’t have to like it, and he certainly didn’t have to put up with it “HEY, ASSHOLE—” Feuilly dropped the belt and punched him. “FUCK!”

Bahorel seied Feuilly by the hips and threw him back into his bed. Feuilly hit the bookcases that lined the nook where he slept and grunted — but he didn’t care about the pain, and Bahorel didn’t apologise. Bahorel grabbed his ankle and yanked him into the middle of the bed before climbing on top of him and sinking down.

Feuilly swore so loudly and violently that the nuns in the convent down the street suddenly felt the need to pray.

Bahorel slid both hands into Feuilly’s hair, cupping his face in a way that honestly seemed tender.

His grin faded to a soft smile. “I just wanted you to miss me.”

Feuilly punched Bahorel in the side.

Bahorel kissed him.

Feuilly kissed him back, and harder than he expected. Bahorel groaned against his red-haired best friend’s mouth.

“How can I make it up to you?” He asked quietly.

If he expected Feuilly to have to think about it — he was dead wrong.

“Turn around,” Feuilly told him.

Bahorel blinked.

Feuilly was completely serious.

In the course of their more-than-friendship, they’d fallen into a routine. They started out going back and forth and sharing all of the new experiences — but Bahorel had pinned Feuilly down first, and they’d never gotten around to switching.

He’d wondered about it — but they didn’t talk about what they were doing. Things just happened, and they went with it.

Bahorel smiled and folded his arms over Feuilly’s chest. “Can I make a request first?”

Feuilly considered it — and nodded.

“Could you please take a shower first, because holy shit—” He pressed his nose against his arm and laughed. “What the fuck were you even doing at work?”

Feuilly reached around him and covered his face with both hands. “I hate you.”

“You wish you hated me.”

They kissed again, but there was a gentle newness to it. There was a promise in the way that their lips met — an electric sort of tension, filled with curiosity.

They could taste the anticipation, and the nervousness — and the trust.


End file.
